


Cold Black Night

by StarsGarters



Series: Growler [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Merry Christmas, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pantyhose, Rumlow is a dickbag, rumlow is not a nice person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One good deed, deserves another. Unless, of course, you involve HYDRA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Холодная темная ночь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658371) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



Too damn cold.

There were hardly any other fools out on this chilly, clear night. Brock Rumlow chafed his coat-clad arms with gloved hands and cursed the near constant drip of his nose. He sniffled and Steve Rogers offered him a handkerchief. Brock scrunched his face up, "You do know that these damn snot rags are completely unsanitary, right?" But he took the offering anyway and blew his nose noisily.

"Too fucking cold. Why are we out here again? Instead of back at the party?" It was a SHIELD office party complete with an Ugly Sweater contest and weak eggnog that Brock had spiked as soon as the HR director was looking the other way. All those bright faces, clueless and ready to be led. Rumlow's resting expression was a small smirk, because he was a smug good-looking bastard banging the living symbol of all things patriotic and those simple fools had no idea of what awaited them. He might have had a few swigs from his flask before the party. Really, could you blame a guy for not wanting to be sober for the office party?

"You wanted to tag along Brock, nobody forced you." Steve leaned over and not for the first time attempted to hook his fingers in Rumlow's waistband. 

"I make poor decisions. My life story." Rumlow grabbed Steve's arm and with narrowed eyes and threatened, "And if you snap my hose one more time I will break my arm off in your ass." It was sack shriveling cold, Brock wasn't above wearing a base layer of nylon to retain a bit more body heat. And Steve obviously was turned on by them. Win win, really. 

Steve laughed and settled for patting Rumlow on the shoulder. "Fine. I'll stop pulling your pigtails. Your sweater was the best though. An octopus in a Santa hat. Where did you get that?" 

"From a girl. She said I had too many hands when I drank with her." Rumlow kicked at a piece of ice, "Didn't Stark send you a sweater to wear?" 

"He did. I donated it to the Clothing Drive. It lit up and played music, _again_. I don't think I've gotten a gift from Tony that didn't play some sort of odd music." Steve looked up at the clear night sky, the stars peeked out, dim from light pollution. "I'm not a huge fan of the cold either. Snow. Ice. Yeah." 

"People say that you can always get warmer, but you fucking _can't_. Sometimes you're too cold and numb inside to thaw out, to even know what warmth is." Steve looked at him strangely, and Rumlow suddenly felt vulnerable, as if he had made a mistake. "Isn't that right, Freezer Burn?" Rumlow joked, then grinned, his neat white teeth flashing.

Steve coughed. "At least we've got good company, right?" Silence. Rumlow was lost in his own thoughts. "What's wrong Brock?"

"Huh? Nothing. I think my balls just froze off. Maybe lost a few fingers."

"I'll check every inch of you for frostbite later. You're always telling me to share my feelings, to talk about the things that are bothering me. So, right now, I can tell that something's bothering you. 'Fess up, Old Man." Rumlow wasn't above pumping Steve for information, even if it made him feel like an amateur therapist at times. Once you thawed out the super soldier, once you earned his trust, he would not  _stop_ talking. 

"Shut it! I just don't like the cold. I'm not a pussy about it, but..." Rumlow chewed on his lip and wiped his reddened chapped nose on the handkerchief. The more he shared with Rogers, the more he'd trust him. "It reminds me of everyone I've lost. Family. Friends. Team members." He let his voice hitch a bit. "Just don't like feeling cold, you know? We should head back to my place and see if we can rub some things together to make some heat. Take a hot shower? Try out that stuff that heats up when you blow on it?"

"I can't stay over tonight, Brock. I've got a commitment." Steve's eyelashes caught the street lamp light.

"I wasn't aware of any imminent threats to the world, but I'd be glad to tag along. I mean if _Barton_  the Carnie can hang with you guys, there's hope for the rest of us mortals." Brock blew his nose again. Did Thor ever catch a cold?

"No, nothing like that. I'm just going to the Veteran's Center, helping out with the Christmas dinner prep. Hopefully inspiring some donations. Are you sure you want to peel pounds of potatoes on your holiday?" Of course, he'd be doing that outreach crap. Brock sighed. 

"Oh, I'm wicked good with a knife, Rogers. You _know_ that. And I don't have anyone to spend Christmas with, other than the STRIKE team. Why not? Sure. I'll go." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and leaned against Steve for the warmth. Steve put his arm around Rumlow's shoulders and squeezed him fondly. 

"Thanks Brock. If we're both going to be there, maybe I can spend the night after all."

"I think I lost another part of my ear back there. I'm going to be a fucking snowman soon," Brock grumbled, fishing out his car keys. "And I'm not riding bitch in this temp, we're taking my ride."

"Just leave the nylons on, okay?" Steve reached down into Rumlow's pants and snapped the elastic again. He neatly side-stepped Rumlow's back-thrust elbow with a cheeky grin.  

"Oh, you are a fucking  _dead man_ Rogers." Rumlow tried to temper the murder in his eyes with a smile. He grabbed the front of Steve's jacket with both hands and kissed him roughly. "There! Now you're going to get my cold." 

"I don't get sick." Steve grinned and returned the kiss, eventually pushing Rumlow back against the car door and grinding against Rumlow's hip. "Not so much as a sniffle."

"Of course you don't." Rumlow sighed wearily. "Of course you don't." Now a .38 to the temple, that would slow  _anyone_ down and Rumlow couldn't wait for the opportunity to prove it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Well Merry _fucking_ Christmas." Brock Rumlow muttered under his breath and chafed his arms for warmth, then stomped his feet on the welcome mat of the Third Ave Veterans' Center. He tried not to let his disdain show too much for the shoddy facility. Stained ceiling tiles showed water damage from busted pipes and the sickly green linoleum was warped under his boots. "Looks like they need more than kitchen prep," he blew his runny nose on a tissue, "Like a bulldozer and some C4?" 

"Yeah." Steve hung his jacket up on the hooks beside the door. "Pipes froze and the boiler broke during the first part of the cold snap. I paid for the boiler and pipes to get fixed, but the flooring won't get replaced for another two weeks." Steve didn't like to talk about money, but Rumlow knew he was loaded. Not rich like Stark, but residuals from things like Halloween costumes and coffee mugs paid for his philanthropic ventures. Steve would give away his last shirt if that meant helping someone. It was beyond obnoxious. 

"At least it's warm, my ass cheeks are ice blocks." Rumlow unwound his scarf from around his neck. A large man with a thick brown beard and many tattoos peaking out from under his sweat-stained US Navy t-shirt stepped out from a hallway to welcome them with a big smile. 

"Steve!" He exclaimed and clapped Rogers on the shoulder. "Thanks for showing up, most of my guys are home with their families tonight, this really means a lot." Brock looked at the knotted scars peeking out of the neck of the man's shirt. He had very similar scars on his flank, some redder and fresher than others. The cold didn't do those old injuries any favors, Rumlow resented the implication that he was getting older, slower and less effective. This was  _his_ time.

Steve shrugged, it wasn't like he had any family to stay home with, that made it even easier for Rumlow to insinuate himself into his life. You could have family by _blood_ and family by _choice_ , and sometimes neither of those options were good for you. "Hey Brian, got some chores that need done?" 

Brian laughed, "Look around, pick something. Pick _anything._  Seriously man, we wouldn't be open without you." Rumlow sneezed into Steve's handkerchief. "This must be Brock, its a pleasure. I've heard a lot about you." Brian went to shake Rumlow's hand, then they both paused as Rumlow sneezed again.

"Sorry, 'bout that. What bullshit have you heard about me?" Rumlow smiled and wiped his nose. 

Brian grabbed Steve's shoulder again and Rumlow was momentarily jealous of their easy camaraderie. _Back off man. He's mine._ "This guy here, he never brags about anything, but he will not stop talking about you son." Steve blushed and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Rumlow smiled, his status reassured. He shrugged and dusted his knuckles off on his jacket, it was still too cold to take it off. "Well, I am possibly pretty damn special."

"What you are is possibly _contagious_." Steve teased him. 

Rumlow rolled his eyes and jabbed Steve in the ribs with an elbow, "I heard that you needed someone good with a knife and root veggies."

Brian gestured towards a door, "The kitchen is through that door. Steve, you're on forklift duty." 

"I thought that the forklift was broken." Steve's eyebrows knitted, as if he was making a mental note of yet another thing that needed repaired or replaced. 

"It _is_." Brian poked Steve in the bicep and then they both laughed. Rumlow blew his nose again. What a waste of a good evening. His buzz was starting to wear off too, probably better that way if he was going to be playing with sharp things. Sharp things always cheered him up.

"Hey. I'm Brock." Brock greeted the lone volunteer peeling carrots at the prep table. He was obviously a vet, probably still had sand in his ass crack. His hair was still closely shorn but uneven in the way that self-given haircuts could be. Brock washed his hands. "Point me at the potatoes."

"Curtis. Need a knife?" 

"Brought my own." Brock pulled out his boot knife, the blackened blade keen and sharp. He sat down on a stool and began efficiently peeling spuds. Sometimes he could get the whole peel off in one long strip. Sure, he was showing off a bit and Curtis was watching his every move. After a while, Brock noticed that Curtis was emulating him, picking up the little tricks that he'd been using. _Interesting._  

"You're good at this." Curtis tossed the last of the peeled potatoes in to a vat of salted cold water to keep the flesh from browning. "Lots of practice?"

Rumlow barked a short harsh laugh. "Fuck yeah. I was a mouthy little shit, so I got KP duty a few dozen times. Better than cleaning out submarine bilges, though. Diesel in my ears for weeks, you know?" Saltwater, diesel, dirt and grime down his clothes, staining his skin. He'd shaped up into a model sailor after his first and last assignment to the bilges.

"So you're with Steve?" The question was quiet but full of curiosity. Rumlow licked his lips and decided to be the professional he prided himself on being. No sexual shit, just business. Curtis was too  _bland_ for his interests now. Stupid fucking super-soldiers, once you started fucking them they ruined you for the rest of humanity. 

"Yeah. He's on _my_ team." Rumlow cleaned his blade and stuck it back in his boot sheath. He lifted the vat of potatoes from the floor to the table, showing off that he wasn't fluff and pudding under his jacket. 

Curtis' mouth dropped open in satisfying awe. "You give _orders_ to Captain America?" Oh that felt good. Rumlow leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. 

"When he chooses to fucking listen to them, yeah." A tiny shrug. "So, how long have you been out?"

Curtis looked at the floor, paused and then wiped up a splash of water on the prep table. "A year. Brian lets me live here, it's better than the shelters. Wife kicked me out. Said she was tired of me not having a job and I can't really blame her."

"Do you drink? Shoot up?" Brock bluntly asked. 

Curtis shook his head. "I don't even have _that_ as an excuse. Guess I'm just a fuck up." He threw the washrag into the sink. "I guess I don't know how to be anything else than a soldier. They expect me to just jump right back in to the civilian world?" 

What a fucking _waste_. Well Rumlow wasn't one to pass up a good recruit. "Huh. Never had a taste for the civvie life myself. Have you tried contracting?" 

"Merc work? Too few and far in between. I wasn't the best soldier." Mmm. Honesty and humility. This was getting better and better. Rumlow smiled, a warm sunny smile that was meant to disarm and charm. He leaned back on the counter and looked Curtis in the eyes. 

"You don't have to be the best, actually. You just have to know how to follow orders. How to be _loyal_. You know the best thing about working for SHIELD?" Curtis shook his head. "The bennies. The usual stuff. Health insurance, vision and dental for your entire family, 401K and that good old fashioned feeling of belonging to something bigger than yourself. My favorite part is shooting bad guys in the face for freedom. Also, no mandatory retirement age, thank fucking God." Rumlow chuckled, telling nothing but the truth. He sounded like a recruiter and he meant to.

"Thanks for rubbing it in, sounds like a dream job. There's no way they'd hire a nobody like me." The despair and raw need in the man's voice was delicious. Oh, he was going to get a bonus for pulling this one into the organization. 

Rumlow scoffed, "Well, I wasn't bragging. Wasn't trying to be an asshole or rub your nose in it." He pulled out his wallet and took out a business card, plain thick white paper embossed with a phone number. "Listen Curtis, there's perks to being Team Leader, like a direct hotline to recruitment. If you'd like," It was a line that went straight to SHIELD HR, but to a very specific team of recruiters. "I could put a good word in for you. Just remember who it was who took a chance on you. Who it was that thought it would be a tragedy to not have you on his team."  

"I-- I don't know what to say." Curtis stammered. You'll be saying _Hail HYDRA_ soon enough, Curtis, Brock thought with satisfaction. 

"Say you'll make the call in the morning." Steve said from the doorframe, he'd been listening to the entire exchange, biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt. "You're a good man Curtis, you've really given a lot to this place and I'd be happy to be a reference too." Curtis took the card from Brock with trembling fingers. 

"I-- I've got to go call my wife, _thank you_. Thank you so much!" Curtis wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and scampered off to the office phone. 

Brock shook his head at Steve and in disappointment said, "All this time here and you never once thought to offer the poor guy a job? What's _wrong_ with you Rogers?" Rogers would never dream of pulling rank and taking advantage of his fame. Rumlow had no such reservations. 

Steve ducked his head, then looked at the ceiling in shame and shrugged. "I'm not Team Leader, am I? That was a really wonderful thing you did there, Brock."

"Pfft. I'm just covering my own ass. I need more soldiers to order about. He might not cut it on STRIKE, but there's loads of other positions that he could fill. And _everybody_ needs a place to belong. A role to play, right?" More foot soldiers for the coming revolution. Rumlow didn't care what it took to make HYDRA triumph, he just wanted it to be in  _his_ lifetime so he could reap the benefits and get what was coming to him. Curtis might embrace the new world order and end up on STRIKE, he might rebel and get a .45 in the back of the head. Either way, Rumlow was content. 

"Help me carry this stuff into the walk-in, okay?" Steve picked up a crate of vegetables with one arm that Rumlow would have had to drag across the floor. 

"I just got fucking  _warm_ Rogers--!" Rumlow complained with a whine, but he followed Steve into the refrigerator with a load. He _was_ such a good boyfriend. Steve shut the door behind them and set the crate in front of it, effectively barricading themselves in. "The fuck is this?" Rumlow was alarmed, had he slipped up? Did Steve know? Panic rose in his throat and he wished that he was armed with more than a dinky boot knife.  

Steve's eyes were hooded with lust and Rumlow whimpered as the super-soldier pushed up against him, nuzzling and kissing at his throat. "Let me get you warmer..." Steve groped his ass and pawed at him like he was going to rip off his clothes right there. Rogers unbuttoned Rumlow's jeans and rubbed Rumlow's cock through the pantyhose, making Rumlow keen with delight.  

"Oh -- oh oh _shit_." Steve covered his mouth with his lips, sucked on Rumlow's lower lip until it throbbed. Then he pinned Rumlow against the wall with one hand against Rumlow's chest and Rumlow hardly noticed the cold wall at his back. So damned strong. 

"Shh... you can't wear these things and not expect me to rip your clothes off... " Steve snapped the pantyhose band and licked his lips. " _Damn_. No shorts? Good planning, Commander."  

"They bunch up--! Jesus Christ!" Brock stopped forming coherent sentences when Steve dropped to his knees and started lavishing Rumlow's cock with his lips and tongue through the taut nylon. Rumlow wound his fingers in Steve's hair as the Avenger did his best to suck Rumlow through the fabric. Steve lost patience with his game and slipped the band down far enough that Rumlow's cock peeked out. Steve stroked Rumlow's nylon clad balls while licking at the sensitive cluster of nerves at the underside of his cockhead until Brock came with a shuddery gasp. 

Steve swallowed, wiped his mouth on his hand, kissed the tip of Rumlow's cock and tucked him back inside his hose. "Merry Christmas, love." Steve said with utter sincerity and Brock pressed his face into Steve's shoulder and clung to him.  

"And here I forgot my fucking mistletoe." Rumlow sputtered with the last of his bravado, barely able to stand upright. "Only one of us can survive getting frozen, Big Guy, and I think I'm halfway to being a Brock-cicle." He sneezed.

One day, he'd remind Steve Rogers about this cold dark night when HYDRA was in total global control and Project Insight had destroyed any flickering hope of rebellion. Maybe he'd even have Curtis help with the public execution of Captain America. Brock smiled sweetly at the thought of Rogers helplessly bound and on his knees with Rumlow's gun barrel pressed hard against his forehead. "Merry Christmas, Steve."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "It was a cold black night and the rain was falling down  
> Cold black night and the rain was fallin' down  
> I went out lookin' for my girl, I knew she wasn't nowhere around"  
> Lyrics copyright Fleetwood Mac


End file.
